


Dance Little Liar

by c3mf, Linguini



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Blackmail, Crimes & Criminals, Gen, Organized Crime, Secrets, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c3mf/pseuds/c3mf, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linguini/pseuds/Linguini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MJN gets a mysterious new pilot; Douglas channels Cassandra.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"And the clean coming will hurt </i><br/>And you can never get it spotless<br/>When there's dirt beneath the dirt<br/>The liar take a lot less time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Little Liar

Martin winced as the howling wind outside slammed the door against the wall behind him, and looked around in satisfaction. First in again, as always. Though he’d never admit it, some small part of him took great pride in his reputation for punctuality, especially as it never failed to grate on Douglas’s nerves when it meant he got first dibs on whatever pastries Arthur brought back from the canteen.

Not that the older man ever did anything about it. He seemed to enjoy grumbling more than pastries, and Martin was happy to leave him to it.

As he bustled around, gathering copies of the paperwork for their next flight, Martin noticed the sliver of light from under Carolyn’s door. Cautiously, he pushed it open and was surprised to find the alpha dog herself, staring with a sort of glazed expression at the computer monitor. There was no indication that she’d heard him come in, nor that she realized he was staring at her now.

Martin dithered for a bit, torn between concern for his employer and self-preservation. Finally, he decided to take action and, squaring his shoulders and tugging down his jacket, reached hesitantly for her wrist, intending to alert her gently to his presence.

“If you so much as lay one finger on me, Martin,” she said suddenly, startling him into a yelp. “I will schedule 27 flights within a 50-mile radius in the next month and give Douglas the whole time off.”

”I-I just thought...” Martin stuttered, then swallowed hard. “Never mind. What has you so... laser-beamy?”

Carolyn beckoned him to the computer. “Come read this.”

Cautiously, Martin rounded her desk and leant to read the e-mail over her shoulder.

Then he blinked and reread it again. “A CV? Is there something odd about it I’m supposed to be noticing?” he asked. “Besides the obvious fact that it doesn’t belong to you?”

She slid him a side-long look dark enough to make him straighten. “So glad to know you’re using your unmatchable powers of deductive reasoning, DI Crieff. Yes, it’s a CV. Applying for a position. Here.”

“I didn’t know we were hiring.”

“Of course, we’re not hiring, you idiot. That is, unless, there is another pilot in the world as desperate to fly as you, and let’s face it, I don’t think there is.”

Before, he had the chance to get indignant, she plowed on. “The point I’m trying to make is, we don’t advertise, not like this anyway. So how did this Peter Burke even find us to send his CV on?”

“The better question would be _why?_ We’re not exactly a stepping stone on the path to success. Are you sure this isn’t just a prank?”

Carolyn spared him a witheringly exasperated glance. “Would I have bothered to ask you to take a look if I thought it was? Because I am so fond of stringing my pilots along and wasting my time with something as idiotic as fake emails. _To myself._ ”

“Right, right. You’ve made your point. Still...” He gave the email another cursory glance. “This Peter Burke does seem qualified.”

“As does Arthur on paper until you meet him.”

Martin couldn’t help but smile. “So delete it then. As you said, we’re not hiring. Maybe he just got the wrong account.”

“Or he didn’t and the idiot is hanging all of his hopes on us.”

“Now there’s something you don’t hear about MJN everyday,” Douglas said, leaning in the doorway to Carolyn’s office, perpetually smug smile firmly in place. “And I strongly suspect it’s the last. Who’s the idiot and why is he under the delusion we’re able or inclined to help?”

Carolyn rolled her eyes at him. “I’d tell you you were late, but A. life’s too short, B. you know it already, and C. I’ve already mentally deducted it from your pay.”

“Now, that’s not fair!” Douglas protested. “We agreed that I wouldn’t be penalized for genuine emergencies.”

“Stopping at the Ladbrokes to place a hundred each way on the Ryder Cup is not my idea of a ‘genuine emergency.’”

Douglas threw his hand on his chest, dramatically. “You wound me, Carolyn. I’ll have you know, I was escorting a family of ducks across--”

“Yes, yes, alright Dr. Doolittle--and I mean ‘Doolittle’ in every sense of the word...” A stifled giggle from Martin, and a quirk of an eyebrow from Douglas. “Have _you_ ever heard of a...Peter Burke? Pilot type, one each.”

Douglas’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. “Only one, but he’s long gone now.”

“Dead?” Martin asked.

“No, Bahamas.”

Just then, Carolyn’s computer chimed. Curiosity won over and the three of them crowded around the screen to see, reading the new message. Silence reigned for a long while, which Douglas--naturally--was the first to break.

“Christ,” he breathed. “That’s....”

“Quite a lot of zeros,” Carolyn said. “Yes. Well....” And then could think of nothing more to say.

Before any of them could recover, Arthur burst in. “I’ve got breakfast, everyone! Douglas, here’s a blueberry scone, and Martin a pro---What’s everyone looking at?”

“A miracle,” Martin murmured

Arthur’s face grew impossibly brighter. “Oh! Can I see?” He wedged himself between Douglas and Martin, reading over Carolyn’s head. “What’s...an annuity?”

“It’s an amount of money you get every year. As in, annually,” Douglas said. “It’s also apparently ours. Or, your mother’s, rather.”

Arthur grinned. “That’s amazing! What are we getting the money for?”

Carolyn shook her head slightly. “I-I’m not quite sure.” Rereading the e-mail didn’t make the situation any clearer, with the exception of explaining the appearance of an unsolicited CV in MJN’s mailbox.

“So, basically,” Martin said slowly. “All we have to do is... put this Burke fellow, the what does he call him... ‘trusted agent’ on the roster so he can fly this guy’s flights when they come up and we’ll get--” He gulped. “--all that? E-every year? W-why would anyone want to subcontract to _us_?”

“Because we’re reasonably-priced,” Carolyn said.

“You mean cheap.”

She glared at Douglas and continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Which means more of their contracted price stays in their pocket. But in any case, it’s quasi-steady work for us, which is a boon.”

Douglas narrowed his eyes. “So it would seem.”

Carolyn was instantly on the alert. “What, Douglas? What do you know?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Only, when have _we_ ever been the recipients of such largess? We’re not on that side of the angels.”

“ _You_ may not be,” Carolyn replied. “But can you deny that Arthur is? And since MJN will belong to him one day... Could it be that the pandering, toadying, and general scraping by we’ve had to do to people like Birling and Alyakhin has finally paid off?”

“No,” Douglas said emphatically. “And if you think so, you’re not as shrewd as I thought you were.”

Carolyn scoffed at him. “Yes, yes, Cassandra. We hear your proclamations of doom and gloom. I, however, being the all-knowing and all-powerful goddess of fate around here, decree that it shall be done.” A brief pause. “ _After_ I’ve done a thorough check on this...Peter Burke fellow.”

“Well then, by all means, leave MJN’s future to the wonders of the internet,” Douglas sniped. “It’s not as though backgrounds and the like can’t be forged. It’s not as though anyone _lies._ ”

Martin leant around Arthur to stare at him. “You’re not happy about this? At all?”

Douglas only shrugged. “Were the cheque addressed to me, perhaps.”

Martin frowned. “Not even over the chance for a pay increase?”

“At the cost of being beholden to some unknown benefactor. Sorry, but those aren’t the sort of odds a skilled betting man would ever favor.”

Indignation snapped Martin’s spine straight. “Well, excuse me for being just the tiniest bit pleased that my luck has finally turned around.”

“Enough!” Carolyn snapped. “Both of you, out. I can’t stand the sound of you anymore.”

Arthur stayed leaning over his mother’s shoulder, obviously quite absorbed. “So,” he said slowly, eyes still glued on the screen. “Does this mean we’re getting a new crew member?”

“Oh, go eat your breakfast.”

With a shrug, Arthur scooped up the pastry box and followed Martin and Douglas out of the office.

Once they were gone, Carolyn ignored the hushed sounds of squabbling and tried to think about her next move. When she at last put her fingers to the keyboard and typed out a quick, but business-like reply, hitting send felt like the end of an era.

She waved it off as sentiment and told herself she was doing the right thing.

~*~

Intriguingly (or so Douglas said), Carolyn’s background checks on Peter turned up nothing of any interest other than a few parking citations, nor did Douglas’s own, _private_ ones.

Peter started on a brisk, brilliant Tuesday morning, on a short hop to Zurich. He flew the first flight sitting in the jump seat with Martin and Douglas, though not joining in on the conversation other than to say that he preferred “Peter” to “Pete,” and that he was not related in any way to Richard Burke. For the rest of the flight, he sat there in stoic contemplation, watching the MJN regulars avidly.

Arthur, as usual, took a shine to him immediately, plying him with hot drinks and grand stories of the “adventures” of past years. Peter took it all with equanimity, and if he was at all exasperated by Arthur’s exuberance, he never showed it. In fact, he never showed much of anything. Eventually, he settled into the rota, spelling Martin and Douglas by turns, until he became as well-known around the airfield as they.

Douglas, however, refused to leave any of them--especially Arthur--alone with Peter. There was something about this new pilot that didn’t sit quite right, though there was no overtly suspicious behavior he could point to. In the absence of any defined rationale, he made himself a stony fixture in the background, watching Peter carefully. For his part, Peter said nothing, letting Douglas exercise his rights of seniority without complaint.

After one particularly frustrating set of flights in South America, Martin finally confronted Douglas.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked as they gazed out onto a lake they’d found adjacent to the hotel. “You’ve been walking around like a bear with a sore paw for ages. This wounded teenager routine is dull.”

Douglas huffed at him. “Look, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. There’s something not right about him. About his flying, and his oddness, and this whole damned situation. Just because I can’t put my finger on it, doesn’t make it any less real. You’d think you would have learned to trust my instincts by now.”

“I trust you about as far as I could throw you,” Martin joked, which he instantly regretted when Douglas looked genuinely hurt for a split second. 

“Fine, then,” he said. “Just don’t come crying to me when something goes wrong.”

“It won’t,” Martin retorted defensively. “You just want something to complain about because your 12-stone ego can’t abide someone else being the savior of MJN.” With that, he turned on his heel, leaving Douglas to glare at the water in growing anger.

With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself off the railing and headed back to the hotel. Peter had take-off the next morning, and damned if he was going to let him get away with anything.

~*~

The worst thing about the whole affair what that there was nothing Douglas could accuse Peter of, except for being dull as dishwater--and really if he was going to stoop to being petty, he was going to do it for someone far more deserving than some middle-of-the-pack pilot who appeared out of thin air.

That was the thing, though. Peter really _was_ infuriatingly mediocre. He didn’t excel at any one aspect of flying, nor did he do exceedingly poorly. He was civil and polite, and more than open to sitting in with MJN or the engineers or the ground crew. But he never said more than was absolutely necessary, didn’t offer any information about himself unless asked and then doled out only the bare minimum.

He was obviously a man who coveted his privacy, something which the rest of MJN was more than happy to give him. He never let anything grievous slip, no strange offhand remarks to write off as awkward, no long pauses or stutters as he attempted to figure out what to say. He never said a single thing that wasn’t characterless and horrifically mundane.

It was everything he _didn’t_ say, however, that set Douglas on edge. _No one_ one earth could be so positively commonplace and insipid. It just wasn’t natural.

The only way to achieve that sort of pedestrian lifestyle was to consciously try and the only people who tried were the ones with something to hide.

Douglas had every intention of digging up every one of Peter Burke’s dirty little secrets and bringing them to light. But first, he had a little bit of personal business to attend to.

He’d been keeping track and since the addition of Peter, MJN had been able to add more flights to its rotations, all of which meant more money in Carolyn’s coffers. Douglas, being the cunning opportunist that he was, couldn’t let such a windfall go to waste. He spent many difficult hours of negotiations reminding Carolyn that more planes meant more flights, which meant MJN would make even more headway against their mounting debt. What it meant to Douglas, he hoped, was a return to the Captain’s seat, which required either a second plane or the removal of Martin. Finding a 10-tonne machine capable of slipping the sullen bounds of earth and propelling people and products thousands of miles using only dead dinosaurs as fuel somehow seemed less impossible than asking Martin to give up his seat.

Douglas waged an impressive campaign, and his persistence was rewarded by an extra ring around his sleeve and a truly awful amount of gold braid on his hat. The only downside was that Martin, for reasons known only to himself and the teddy bear Douglas suspected he kept under his bed, had decided to maintain his dubious employment as CEO and main chair-mover at Icarus Removals.

Douglas, in all his scheming and planning, had neglected to factor this into his calculations, which had the unfortunate effect of forcing him to fly with Peter as his first officer. The two of them crewed the newly-acquired GENNI for longer flights whilst Martin flew GERTI solo on shorter, in-country hops. It was infuriating. To fly with the wet rag of a co-pilot whilst Martin was there to act as a buffer was one thing. To have every flight with him, alone save Arthur’s occasional company was torture. 

Naturally, there always came a time in any pilot’s career where they had to build rapport with their co-pilots. Douglas wasn’t unfamiliar with tense or awkward silences, or tersely clipped instructions whilst testing the waters. In fact, that pointed uncomfortableness was _exactly_ what he expected, which made it all the more irritating and taxing when he was the one left to take care of it.

He tried all of the standard smalltalk, platitudes, and trivia, fishing for some way to appeal to Peter’s ego. All he got in return were a handful of vague, uninterested answers, and questions about the SOPs.

Douglas ground his teeth and seethed.

“Don’t you have anything outside of flying?” Douglas finally snapped halfway through a flight to Sydney. “Anything at all? Something to make you appear marginally human perhaps?”

Peter kept his eyes fixed on the instruments and shrugged. “I don’t live that exciting a life, I’m afraid. Not much to tell. Not unless you want to hear about my bills and my houseplants.”

Finally something to latch onto. “Houseplants? Fond of gardening?”

“Not especially.”

He didn’t care if he’d have to make the rest of a twenty-one hour flight alone. He was going to throttle Peter and dump his body out of the plane.

“Why MJN?” he growled.

Peter had the audacity to look confused. “Why MJN, what?”

“Why choose us? There are hundreds of other airlines to pick from, all of them more credible than this two-bit wonder, so why?”

Peter smiled his dishwater-bland smile. “Why not?”

Suspicion and fury set Douglas’s teeth on edge. He didn’t care how long it took, he was going to find out what was going on, and when he did he was going to make certain Peter hanged for it.

The rest of the flight proceeded in much the same vein, and eventually Douglas gave up trying, setting his jaw and imagining all the things he’d rather have been doing right then--starting with pulling up nettles with his bare hands and ending somewhere with sticking his head in the jaws of a Bengal tiger. 

Peter continued in this insipid, inoffensive manner for every flight they went on for weeks.Douglas swore he could feel his mind stagnate at the lack of appreciable human contact. He hated to admit it, even in the privacy of his own mind, but a large part of him appreciated Martin’s willingness to spar against him on the flight deck. whilst he still saw him once in a long while, it wasn’t the same. 

Everything about Peter screamed that he was the diametric opposite of Martin. Where Martin was prissy and uptight, Peter was laid back enough to have been used as a piece of carpet; where Martin knew and enforced every rule dreamed up by some pedantic bean counter in the CAA, Peter was more than content to let Douglas act how he pleased, so long as GENNI stayed in the air when she was needed to and landed when, and only when, she was supposed to. Peter’s brand of laissez faire on the flight deck, especially in deference to Douglas’s superiority, should have been a breath of fresh air. Instead, Douglas found himself growing tenser and more short-tempered as the weeks went on.

The straw that broke Carolyn’s back was Douglas actually snapping at Arthur for bringing back a blueberry scone instead of a muffin. The instant Arthur left to prepare for their departure, she summoned Douglas to her office and read him the riot act for stirring up trouble where there was none. Douglas, physically and emotionally tired from the strain of the past weeks, jumped on the pressure valve a good spar with Carolyn offered and sniped back. Somewhere along the way, their usual tête–à–tête turned a vicious corner, with neither of them willing to back down. He eventually stormed out, and the entire flight was conducted in frostbitten silence.

The icy edge never seemed to thaw. If anything it stretched itself into a tundra that neither were willing to cross. It was nearly as unbearable as the stopovers he was forced to endure.

Douglas had always enjoyed travel; it was one of the many perks of being a pilot and one he had always found a way to use to his advantage. Now there was nothing he dreaded more (except possibly, another custody hearing over his daughter). Twenty-four hours of down time and half of it was going to be spent in the same room as the man he had waited all flight to get away from. He was very nearly tempted to shell out for his own room out of pocket simply so he wouldn’t have to look at Peter and fight off the automatic revulsion and suspicion. If Carolyn wasn’t concerned, then there was no reason he should be. And if after everything went tits up just as he had said it would, well...

They landed in Montreal, finished up all of the requisite checks in the same stifling silence that had encompassed the entirety of their flight, and when they reached the Departures, Douglas insisted on separate taxis. Anything so he could detox and recollect his thoughts, pull himself together and scrub the irritating vulnerability from his bones. His skin was too tight, and his jaw ached from grinding his teeth. Like a fool, he was broadcasting every single tell he had and he needed to rein them back in.

What he needed now was cool, collected calm. What he needed was apathy worn thick and strategically placed.

By the time the taxi pulled in front of the hotel, he felt sufficiently centered and stone-faced. The mask wasn’t without its faults certainly, but it would have to do. It would last long enough for him to place a few very specific, very necessary phone calls, at least. Collecting intel had always been one of his strong suits, if only because he had a thing for faces and names. Details mattered and were something he was well-versed in. Those details merited him favors. He saw no reason why he shouldn’t call in a few to put his mind at ease.

Douglas’s initial foray into investigative inquiry regarding the qualifications and/or possible criminal record of on Peter Randolph Burke had yielded nothing untoward, no matter how thorough his digging was. But years in the “alternative acquisitions” game had taught him a thing or two about identities, stolen or otherwise. There were few people better in the business of manufacturing personal details--complete with histories, qualifications, and one or two minor infractions for that added bit of realism--than Douglas’s friends, so it was to them he went first.

From Frank and Steven, he got nothing. But the text from Sebastian, saying only that he’d have the information within two days, raised Douglas’s hackles. Sebastian dealt exclusively with _very_ high-ranking members of various European and Russian mafias, and Douglas, who was his only supplier of Marmite with access to a plane.

By the time Peter finally arrived in the room, several hours after Douglas had settled himself in the bed with the fewest suspicious stains on it, it was without explanation for his absence other than tossing a cheap digital camera on his bed before he headed for the shower. The temptation was too much; Douglas _had_ to see what was on that camera. 

At first glance, the pictures weren’t anything suspicious--just a few shots of a nearby park. As Douglas scrolled through, however, there were fewer tourist-type shots and more of the airport. No, not the aiport. The _airfield_ , its fences and gates, the various positions of security guards, and finally several shots of an empty hangar on the far side of the tarmac. Before he could puzzle out what it all meant, the shower creaked to a stop. Douglas cycled back to the start of the pictures and arranged himself inconspicuously back on his own bed before Peter had even stepped out.

The evening passed in a silence, which was as maddening as it was welcome. The only words exchanged were when Peter checked their departure time with Douglas before turning over in his bed and ostensibly drifting off. Douglas wasn’t fooled. There was no way in hell he was going to show his hand by doing anything other than reading his book whilst someone Sebastian knew apparently by sight was around. 

Peter disappeared the next morning, which both worried and suited Douglas. He really didn’t relish having the other man out of his sights, but that would have required an amount of proximity he couldn’t have tolerated. By the time Douglas arrived at the airport for their departure, he was surprised to find Peter already halfway through the walkaround. He threw a casual wave at Peter and absorbed himself in the pre-flight checklists, ignoring the itch between his shoulderblades.

Douglas spent entire flight making a conscious effort to hide the tension he felt coiling in every muscle and sinew of his body. He had _never_ been so glad to arrive at Fitton and taxi to their hardstand. Peter disappeared after the flight checks, unsurprisingly, but Douglas wasn’t inclined to worry about it just then. What he really needed was a hot cuppa around people who didn’t make him feel like he should be counting the knives in the galley every five minutes.

~*~

Their next flight out was to Milan, an overnight cargo delivery of Jockey silks. Douglas had meticulously checked and rechecked every manifest for the past month, gone over every line in every logbook until he’d gone crossed-eyed. He knew the answers were hidden in the numbers _somewhere_ , it was just a matter of unearthing them.

Martin had become impossible to talk to, and Carolyn refused to have anything more to do with him than was absolutely necessary. He wracked his brain, reworked every scenario in his head time and time again, but in the end the outcome was always the same. There was no one else he could turn to, so that meant the burden fell to him.

It was just a chance he was going to have to take and he had was a gut feeling that Milan was going to be the trip that brought matters to a head.

So when Monday morning rolled around, bright and sunny and in appalling counterpoint to all the trepidation thrumming under Douglas’s skin, the paperwork and cargo loading went off without a hitch. The only possible signs of anything amiss were coming from him alone. Viciously, he stuffed them back down, slipping on a finely honed mask of impassivity. The effort it took to step into the role was disconcerting at best, but he was an old hand at the art of subterfuge. As long as he drowned himself in in coffee and foisted off of his captainly duties onto Peter, no one would be the wiser. 

After all, if wasn’t as if he was trying to unmask a conman and risking the wrath of a possible psychopath. Not at all.

That Arthur inadvertently became his saving grace flooded him with enough relief to make him positively sick.

“Peter,” Arthur chirped. “Why do some planes have one sticky-up bit on the back and some have two?”

Peter simply stared. “I think Douglas would be more suited to answer that, don’t you?”

“Well, I suppose,” Arthur conceded. “But Mum said if you want to know something really well and make informed decisions, you need to consult multiple sources.” He smiled one of his brightest, most complimentary smiles. “And _you’re_ my second source!”

“I’m flattered,” Peter said, folding up his paper. “But I really should be getting on with the walkaround. We leave shortly and it wouldn’t do for us to be unprepared, would it?”

“Oh, go on,” Douglas said. “It isn’t everyday you get to be the bearer of such enlightenment. I’ll do the walkaround, my treat.”

Peter hesitated for a fraction of a second, then tilted his head to one side. “Ah,” he said. “Martin warned me you might do this.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. He said sooner or later you’d find a way to rope me into owing you a _colossal_ favor.”

“Ah,” Douglas said. “Well, then I shouldn’t disappoint his expectations of me, should I? Have fun!”

“Douglas!” Peter called just before he got out the door. “I owe you.”

Douglas waved a dismissive hand behind his head as he exited, confident in Arthur’s ability to keep Peter occupied long enough for him to do a _very_ thorough inspection of GENNI. It took exhausting every one of the tricks in his not-inconsiderable arsenal to find it but he eventually managed. There, wedged in the bulkhead’s negative space just behind the cables leading to the right aileron was a neatly-wrapped package, innocuous except for the clear intent in its positioning.

The rest of his walkaround, though just as thorough, yielded nothing of interest, and Douglas returned to the office. He had been a veteran of enough stern lectures from headmasters, police, captains, and ex-wives (to say nothing of their lawyers) to know the precise configuration of muscles and movement of limbs that would make him look as normal as possible.

He popped his head in the door. “Looks good, Peter,” he said. “If you gentlemen will kindly load yourselves, we’ll be on our way.”

“Right-o, Douglas,” Arthur chirped and headed out. Peter followed Douglas with his usual silence, and, once on board, settled methodically into making his way through the radio checks. After takeoff, the flight deck was filled with the same oppressive silence that had been the bane of Douglas’s happiness for months.

Douglas made sure that he and Arthur got off the flight and through customs first, distracting Arthur with a trip through the duty free whilst they waited for Peter to finish. In the hotel that night, Douglas feigned a headache and retired to his room early. He spent the evening hunched over his computer making plans, contacting old friends and setting in motion events he hoped would rid them of Peter and his inordinately shady dealings. Sleep that night, once it finally came, was fickle, not lasting longer than twenty minutes at a stretch. Once the clock showed 5 am, Douglas gave it up as a bad job, took a long hot shower, and wandered down for a spot of breakfast. He was startled to find Peter already there, waiting for him.

“Morning,” Peter greeted placidly.

There was something in the way he rose from his chair that immediately put Douglas off his stride, something in the way he didn’t unfold himself in stages, but rather flowed up onto his feet in a single motion that screamed predator.

Douglas hesitated. He knew right then that he’d finally caught Peter’s interest. It was like staring down a shark, one that had already scented blood in the water. He couldn’t say he was terribly thrilled to be Peter’s sole focus now, but there was nothing for it.

“Join me for breakfast?” Peter asked. “I think we have some things to discuss, don’t you?”

Douglas followed without a word, if only because he couldn’t come up with any sort of excuse that wouldn’t reek of suspicion.

The table Peter chose was situated in the corner of the dining hall, conspicuously out of the way, and more importantly, half-hidden between a decorative dividing wall, heavily adorned with garish plastic greenery. If Peter had led Douglas down some godforsaken back alley in the dead of night, Douglas couldn’t have been more restless.

“Please,” Peter said, gesturing to the seat opposite him. “Take a seat. I’m not going to pull your chair out for you, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

Grimacing, Douglas took his seat, with a sort of nonchalance he had never before had to force, and settled into his most dispassionate slouch.

Peter simply unfolded his menu and arched a brow at him. “Rough night?”

“Oh, are we moving on to small talk now?” Listlessly, Douglas flicked open his own menu with one hand. It said something about his penchant for acting that his hands hadn’t betrayed him by shaking yet. The drumming of his heart was another matter entirely. “I thought you didn’t lead an exciting enough life to share any details?”

“But we’re not talking about _my_ life now, are we?” The question was left hanging in the air between them, poignant and insidious. Peter didn’t once meet his gaze, simply smiled after a moment and laid aside his menu. “I think I’ll have the croque madame. You?”

When the waitress came round to take their orders, Douglas didn’t trust himself with more than a cup of coffee. Peter sat with his hands steepled against his chin, gaze fixed pointed on the room beyond Douglas’s shoulder and said not a word.

After a while, it became quite clear that the silence was a passive-aggressive tactic meant to unbalance and leave Douglas unsettled.

 _Like a worm on a hook_ , Douglas thought bitterly.

“I don’t take kindly to being spied on,” Peter said at length, attention still pinned on the rest of the dining hall.

“Nor should you.” Douglas replied smoothly. “It’s a nasty business, total invasion of privacy.”

Peter slid his gaze back to Douglas and smiled against his fingers. “Which is precisely why I don’t understand what you think you’re doing.”

“ _You’re_ the one who invited _me_ to breakfast. If you don’t understand your own motives, I’m afraid I won’t be of much help.”

Peter laughed, but Douglas couldn’t help but hear natural easiness slipping from Peter’s tone, peeling back to reveal something colder and darker underneath.

“Douglas,” Peter said, and his smile was fuller than it had ever been, ripe with amusement and wicked condescension. “You’re out of your league.”

The waitress returned with their order then, laying out their dishes with smiles and compliments which Peter readily returned. When she had gone, Peter contented himself with unfolding his napkin, meticulously smoothing it across his lap, and lining up his silverware at the exact edge of his plate.

Douglas refrained from sipping his coffee, which reeked of searching for something to give his hands to do and instead raised one eyebrow across the table. “Am I?” he asked.

Peter merely nodded, cutting into his food with methodical precision “Indeed you are. It’s a tricky business catering to the demands of others. There’s a certain amount of expectation from the chain of authority and when those expectations aren’t met, well... There are consequences, for everyone. One would think you’d already had your fill of that at Air England.”

He paused for a bite, then another, humming a delighted little sound. “You sure you’re not interested in breakfast? No?” When Douglas said nothing, Peter simply shrugged and took another bite. “Now, where were we? Ah yes. Consequences. They do make things so difficult, especially when what all any of us want is exactly what we’re due. There’s nothing wrong with admitting when you’ve... stepped beyond your means, say.”

“I wasn’t aware I _had_ ,” Douglas said.

Peter gave him a look full of mock-disappointment. “Now you’re playing the fool. And I think we both know you’re far from that. You’re clever enough to know when you’ve gotten in over your head. I’m sure you’ve told Sarah discretion is the better part of valor, haven’t you?”

“Sarah?” Douglas asked. “I’m sorry, but you’re mistaken. I don’t know any Sarah.”

Peter gave a short chuckle without an iota of mirth behind it. “Oh, did I say Sarah? How silly of me, that’s the best friend. I meant Miranda, obviously.”

Douglas’s blood ran cold.

“They _do_ look so much alike,” Peter continued, “And it’s difficult to tell the one from the other when they spend so much time together.”

Douglas swallowed against the stone in his throat. If there was ever a time for acting, it was now. He could think of nothing that wouldn’t place himself and his family in an even more precarious position, so he kept his mouth shut.

“What is she, nine now?” Peter asked, as he speared the yolk of one egg with the tines of his fork. “No, no, she’s almost ten, isn’t she? Now, there’s a tricky age--not a baby anymore, but not quite grown. You have your hands full with her, I imagine, all the disciplining and looking after. Because, what it comes down to is you wanting the best for her, am I right? You want to keep her safe from all the little horrors of the world.”

With a boyish grin, he bit off the sliver of dripping egg. Douglas’s gorge rose and he swallowed down the bitter taste of bile.

“But there are just some things you can’t account for,” Peter continued, merrily cutting into the remains of his eggs with the precision of a surgeon with a scalpel. “A tumble down the stairs at school. A reckless driver on the way home. Some sort of deviant with a weakness for dark hair and pretty eyes.”

Peter’s smile deepened, flashing teeth--all the trappings of affability and none of the substance. All at once, Douglas saw past the pretense of the man opposite him and finally witnessed the void beneath.

“The only safe place for her would be tucked away inside a box so all the monsters could never hurt her. A lovely wooden one, all carved and polished and lined with silk. No one would ever touch her again.” Peter met Douglas’s eyes, held his gaze until Douglas could feel the emptiness insinuate itself into his veins, and he forgot how to breathe. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

Douglas wasn’t wriggling anymore. No, he had plunged straight into paralyzing and sickening panic.

Peter laid down his silverware across the top of his plate, just so. “You’re going to do exactly as I tell you,” he said, meek and mild and just as nicely as you please. “And if you do as you’re told and if you’re very _very_ good, I promise you your little girl will be safe as houses. If you don’t... Just know that for every wrong you do me, I’ll take something from you. I’ll ravage it and leave what’s left on your doorstep. I won’t tell you how or when or even who because none of that will matter. You’ll know why and you’ll know you’re the one who drove me to it.”

Peter dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, then stood up, patting Douglas’s shoulder as he walked by. “See you on the flight deck,” he said, then was gone.

Douglas looked down to where his hands were shaking around his coffee mug and willed them to stop. It took longer than he liked for them to comply, for his stomach to battle away the rising nausea, for his knees to feel solid enough to support him. He threw some money on the table, not caring if it covered the bill and stumbled out of the hotel. 

The bright sunshine gleaming off car windscreens and metal poles was incongruous with the oily unease that crept down his spine. 

Lost in the maelstrom of his thoughts, Douglas was startled when Arthur appeared at his elbow. 

“Morning, Douglas,” he chirped. “Where’s Peter?”

“Gone to the field,” Douglas replied, shading his eyes against the bright sun in search of the shuttle back to the airport.

Arthur blinked at the tone in his voice. “Did something happen?” he asked, finally.

“No,” Douglas grumbled. “Nothing happened.”

“Oh. Well, okay.” A pause, then, “I only ask because you sound a bit....un-Douglassy.”

Douglas sighed. “I always sound Douglassy, for I am, wait for it... a Douglas.”

“Well yes,” Arthur started. Douglas didn’t let him finish.

“Not today, Arthur? Please? Can we, just this once, have a journey without your incessant nattering?”

A hurt look flashed across Arthur’s face, which Douglas caught out of the corner of his eye. With a sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Just a bit of a headache.”

“Ah! I know the best--” Arthur shut his mouth with a click at the glare Douglas shot his way “Never mind then. I’ll just....be quiet?”

“Please,” he growled. Arthur nodded and they passed the rest of the trip in silence. By the time they arrived at their hardstand, Peter was already there, preflight checks and walkaround complete.

“Does this settle our debt?” he asked Douglas, a glint hard as diamonds in his eye.

Douglas only nodded and followed him up the stairs. Peter seemed content to leave the captain’s seat to Douglas, as if to signal his intent to maintain the _status quo_. With a quick swallow, Douglas stowed his hat and jacket, settling into the routines of flight more easily than he’d have expected, given the fast beat of his heart and the sweat trickling down his spine.

The flight back to Fitton was excruciating. Peter had slipped back into his milquetoast persona, leaving Douglas to carry the weight of maintaining the facade of normality in the cockpit. He wasn’t sure how well he did, especially once he caught traces of the hushed conversation between Arthur and his mother once they got home. He couldn’t bring himself to care--not with the burden of the pre-dawn breakfast conversation and the knowledge gained from his insatiable desire to have his hands in every pot.

Now he’d been caught, in the worst way possible. What was there for him to do?

In the end, he decided there wasn’t anything he _could_ do, not and ensure his family’s safety. His farewells were terse and empty, numbness already settling in and weighing down his bones until he felt as if were were made of lead. Shock, he noted faintly. There was a good chance he was going into shock. Not that it mattered.

He got into his Lexus and drove. The sun had long since set by the time he realized he was on the M6 and on his way to Barrow-in-Furness.

It had gone half-one by the time he pulled into Laura’s drive. Exhausted, he cut the engine, slumped down in his seat and tried to remember how to breathe. God, he was tired--wrung out and wasted. His chest ached and his eyes burned and he knew at any moment he was going to break, shatter into a hundred useless pieces and then what good would he be? In vain, he curled his hands around the steering wheel to stop them shaking.

He didn’t realize he had been sitting for so long until there was a pointed rap on the driver’s side window and he nearly had a heart attack.

Laura was standing there, wrapped in her dressing gown, and carrying one of the heavy duty torches she kept under the sink for emergencies--the weighty, metal sort, just the right size for bludgeoning someone’s head in.

Belatedly, he fumbled with the lock and propped open the door.

“What the _hell_ are you doing sitting out here?” she snapped. Before he could even think to answer, she slashed the torch in front of her. “No, forget it. Whatever excuse you have, I don’t want to hear it. You’re not supposed to be here and you know it.”

Over the last few years, it was difficult to say that he and Laura were on anything close to resembling good terms. A cessation to hostility, more like--and that was for Miranda’s sake more than their own. But standing there glaring at him, dishevelled and exasperated, Douglas had never seen her look more alive.

He couldn’t stop himself from imagining her face stained with blood.

“I needed to see you,” he choked out.

Too late, he knew he had said the wrong thing. She stilled suddenly, the same frozen apprehension he remembered seeing after every blackout, the same measured detachment riddled with outrage and disdain he remembered after he had totalled his car in a drunken stupor for the last time. It had been his own stubborn refusal to admit his limits that had torn everything apart then. Not much had changed in the decade since.

All at once, the stillness melted from her and she grimaced. “What threw you off this time?” She didn’t bother hiding her sneer or the derision creeping into her voice. Why should she? If he was crawling back for another drunken bout of reconciliation, he would be too bladdered to notice in the first place. But, more importantly, he also knew that if she believed he was in such a state, she would never trust him behind the wheel.

Before he could say anything, she was already leaning past him and pulling his keys from the ignition.

“Get up,” she told him, pocketing his keys. “You can sober up on the sofa.”

She seethed as she tore into the airing cupboard and he said not a word. Instead he endured every venomous dig she muttered under her breath, every discontented look she slid his way and retreated to the sitting room after she all but shoved the linens into his arms.

It should have been appalling, sitting there in the dark with the remains of Laura’s fury swallowing up the silence. But the longer he sat, the more grateful he was for it because the anger meant she was still breathing.

When the silence finally settled and he was positive Laura had gone back to bed, he crept upstairs and stood vigil within Miranda’s doorway until dawn.

~*~

The impromptu visit didn’t settle Douglas’s nerves much longer than it took him to back out of the drive, and his distraction hadn’t done much for his standing with Laura, either. As he drove back to Fitton, Douglas couldn’t help but replay his breakfast conversation with Peter in his head. Try as he might, he couldn’t find a way out, and unlike a hunted animal, he knew better than to thrash in a trap. Any untoward movements he made, consciously or not, would only serve to antagonize a clearly-dangerous man, with untenable consequences.

There was nothing for it. He’d have to grit his teeth and bear it.

The following weeks were absolute misery. Douglas was forced to pretend to the rest of MJN that everything was fine whilst simultaneously demonstrating his absolute understanding and non-interference to Peter. He’d spent his life perfecting various masks, but had never had to don more than one for such an extended period.The effect was absolutely exhausting. In his more despairing moments, Douglas longed for a permanent end to his troubles--something to ease the strain under which he was living.

The days trudged on in unrelenting agony, until one morning when Carolyn came in with the nearest thing to shock on her face Douglas had ever seen.

“Carolyn?” Martin asked. “Is something the matter?”

Carolyn shook her head. “No. Just...Peter’s resigned. Effective immediately.”

Douglas was careful not to let the full force his terror show, though something must have slipped past his defences. Carolyn gave him a piercing look. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “Not a word. I’m just as shocked as you are.”

It was clear she didn’t believe him, though he couldn’t really bring himself to care. The idea of Peter out of his sight gave him a distinctly queasy feeling, and his fingers itched to call Laura just to make sure they were alright.

Through some miracle of self-control, Douglas managed to avoid giving himself away, though it was a near thing. There were several times when he’d walk into the Portakabin and conversation would stop, or he’d find one of the other MJN members giving him appraising looks when they thought he wouldn’t notice. But he couldn’t tell them anything. The pull Peter’s threats had over him would have been humiliating if he wasn’t so absolutely certain he would follow through.

It should have been liberating, having Peter gone. Instead, it was as if the noose around his neck had tightened, leaving him straining and precariously balanced for a tightrope act.

Two weeks later, he was still looking over his shoulder.

Which was why he didn’t notice the extent of Martin’s agitation until Carolyn crossed the room in a huff. She all but snatched the newspaper from Martin’s hands--at which point he stopped his frenzied babbling--and spread it out over the desktop.

“Now,” she said firmly. “Calmly and without sounding like some cartoon woodland creature, what exactly has got your knickers in a bunch?”

“It’s Peter,” Martin managed, and leant over the paper until he could lay a finger on picture on the front page spread. “I mean, it looks like him, doesn’t it? But--but it _couldn’t_ be, could it?”

Arthur excitedly rushed over to peer over his mother’s shoulder. “Oooh, did Peter doing something to make himself famous?”

“Infamous, more like,” Carolyn replied, gazed pinned grimly on the page. “He’s been arrested under suspicion of smuggling and... Dear lord.”

“What, Mum?”

She said nothing, but simply stabbed at a line of print with her finger. Martin leant himself over the desk and twisted his head to read sideways, mouthing the words as he read. Then he stopped, visibly paling, and dropped back into his seat.

“Human trafficking?” he breathed.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, dividing his attention between the two of them. “And... and that’s not good, right?”

“No, Arthur,” Carolyn said. “Not good at all.”

Arthur and Martin opened their mouths at once, curious inquiry and panicked disbelief blending into an incomprehensible mess. As soon as Carolyn raised a hand, they lapsed into silence.

“Enough,” she said. “Martin, you’re going to go through the checks on both planes, and you’re going to do a damn thorough job of it. I want every inch searched, and if that means you have to take them both apart from nose cone to rudder to do it, so be it. I’m cancelling our jobs until further notice. Now, out you get. And get Dave to work with you.”

Without a word, Martin simply nodded, visibly shaken, and disappeared out the door.

“Arthur, run into town, will you?” she asked. “Find something for lunch--teas, coffees, sandwiches the sizes of small children, I don’t care. Anything that will take hours to rustle up.”

“Righto, Mum!”

Carolyn stood at the desk, hands braced against the paper, and didn’t move until the door had firmly closed behind Arthur.

“You knew,” she said. It wasn’t an accusation--only simple fact, resigned but not defeated. “Right from the start, you knew. How on earth you manage to spot every grubby little grifter working his con, I’ve no idea. But you did. And I refused to listen.” Ruefully, she shook her head. “Well, get your gloating over with now. I’m not certain I’ll be able to stomach it later.”

Douglas could only grimace. “I’ll pass, thank you. It isn’t exactly the most coveted of victories.” Finally, he sighed and ran a weary hand over his face. “You weren’t to know,” he told her. “Really, none of us were. He was _good_ at what he did. I had my suspicions, yes, but that’s all they were. Without proof, it was a grudge at best.” He snorted out a laugh. “I actually started to believe that it was, after a while--that maybe it was all just inside my own head.”

“You having delusions of grandeur? Perish the thought.”

“I never found anything,” he confessed. “Nothing I could pin him with, and by the time I did... Well...” He spread his hands. “I’m not as well-versed in the intricacies of criminality as I might lead one to believe.”

Carolyn levelled him with an even stare. “He threatened you?” 

Douglas could only shake his head. 

“So, he blackmailed you.”

“If you want to pretty it up, yes.”

“Dare I ask how?” It said something of her own discomfort that he could actually hear the reluctance in her voice.

“Miranda.” He didn’t think it needed any further elaboration.

Viciously, Carolyn swore, the newspaper crumpling under her fists, unease giving way under a sudden flash of temper.“That bastard,” she snarled, and then said nothing more, just narrowed her eyes and pinned Douglas with laser-like focus. “Is that why you’ve been wandering around here like the world’s angriest zombie? Like you haven’t slept in a year and eaten properly in longer than that?”

Douglas’s face hardened and he said nothing, knowing that his silence on the subject damned him as easily as any denial.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed and sat heavily in the chair, running a weary hand over her face. “What a mess.”

Douglas nodded. “But at least it’s mostly over now. With P--” He found a lump in his throat where the name should be. “-- _him_ in prison, that’s the end of our involvement.”

“Except for the part where they come and question his last place of employment.”

“Except for that,” he acknowledged, grimacing. “I’m not looking forward to testifying against him.”

Carolyn scoffed. “You’ll have to, there’s no way around it. You knew what he was doing and you failed to notify the authorities. Blackmail or no, that makes you an accessory.”

His face grew even grimmer. “You think I don’t realize that?” he asked shortly and then stood up abruptly, heading for the coffee machine in the back of the room. His damnable hands shook as he poured himself his fourth cup of the morning, though Carolyn blessedly made no comment.

They spent the rest of the time waiting in heavy silence.

~*~

When all was said and done, Douglas ended up testifying in exchange for immunity from prosecution, and the court “made every effort” to protect his identity. Not that he thought it mattered. The information he gave could have only come from one source, and Peter had proven himself more than savvy enough to have picked up on it. Not even the extended minimum sentence for murder in addition to the other charges was enough to erase the unease tripping down his spine.

By the time Miranda’s birthday came around months later, he had settled himself enough to stop constantly looking over his shoulder. The lingering threat had vanished in the wake of an overly-enthusiastic nine year old girl and her ambitious plans for what she called a “birthday extravaganza.” It didn’t come as any surprise that Arthur was involved in the commemorative conspiracy, and for two straight weeks Arthur spent more time on the phone with Miranda than Douglas himself.

When Miranda joyously announced she wanted to have two separate parties--one to celebrate with each of her families--Douglas couldn’t find it in him to deny her.

The get-together at Laura’s consisted mainly of lounging in the back garden by the koi pond--miraculously full of fish and lacking in any sort of confectionery danger--whilst half a dozen pre-teens shrieked and giggled and generally toed the rather thin line between sugar-hyped mischief and full-out menace. Laura readily conceded the manning of the kitchen to Douglas, content to sit at the kitchen island, supervising over stolen spoonfuls of food and glasses of pinot noir.

That night, when the girls collapsed in a exhausted pile in the middle of the sitting room, Laura simply waved Douglas towards the guest room with a yawn.

“You might as well stay,” she told him, pulling blankets from the airing cupboard. “Put you on breakfast duty. That’ll please Miranda.”

“Of course,” he said, taking the lot from her. “Only the best for Her Highness. It can’t have anything at all to do with your fondness for a good fry up.”

“Not a bit,” Laura said and half-swaying, half-sashaying down the hall to the master bedroom, she waggled her fingers over her shoulder. “I have no desire to be up at dawn, chained to the cooker and the whims of overtired and starving children. Nighty night!”

The silence that followed in her wake this time lacked any fury or spite, and instead was a blessing. Even so, he didn’t sleep. He lay awake until dawn, soaking up the quiet like a reprieve. 

~*~

The second party at Douglas’s house was a much more sedate affair, consisting almost entirely of the MJN crew and a few of the friends Miranda had made in Fitton. When Laura dropped her off, it was with a few presents that had arrived in the mail after the first party from various family members. 

“On the table,” Douglas told her, absorbed in the intricacies of the cheesecake he was making. “Then the bedroom’s free for you.”

Miranda complied, then ran back into the kitchen, launching herself at Douglas’s back.

“I’ve caught you!” she crowed, throwing her arms around his waist.

Douglas put the pan in the fridge, then spun around and grabbed her around the middle, sitting on the floor and wrapping her up with his arms and legs.

“Oh, you have, have you?”

MIranda giggled helplessly. “Dad, let me go!”

Douglas pretended to consider it, then shifted a bit, pinning her to the floor. “Do you know, I don’t think I will. I’ve been meaning to sweep the floor for ages, and I think I’ve found just the broom to do it with.”

“No, I’m not a broom!”

“Are you not?” he grinned. “Shame. A mop, then?”

“ _Daddy_ , I’m not a mop.”

Douglas stood up, taking her ankles with him and letting her balance on her hands. “Are you sure? Your hair’s long enough to touch. Look.”

Miranda blew out a breath, trying to keep stray strands out of her mouth, and started singing. “ _‘Look down, look down, don’t look ‘im in the eye.’_ ’”

Douglas chuckled. “Points for being able to sing upside down, but I’m afraid you’ll be penalized for diction and originality. ‘Little People’ is more in your range.”

“Ugh. That’s a dumb song,” she said, then kicked her feet free from his hands and tucked into a roll, ending up wedged against the far wall, laughing hysterically.

“Well done, my dear. Now go wash your hands. I need my sous chef.”

Miranda ran to the bathroom and then returned with her hands still wet, only to gleefully wipe them down the back of his jumper.

“Pest,” he said fondly. “For that, you can peel potatoes. Hop to.”

“Hopping to, Chef,” she replied and dug out the peeler. “How many?”

“DIx-huit, s’il vous plait.”

Peeler in hand, she saluted him and with a sharp “Oui, Chef,” she dug into her task.

They worked together happily in the kitchen, chattering away in French until the first guests arrived. The night was filled with laughter and good-humour, and it was well after midnight when they bid their last guest (Martin, predictably) _adieu_.

He let Miranda stand out in the drive waving until Martin’s tail lights had turned the corner then ushered her back inside. “All right, 24601, march,” he told her, steering her towards the stairs. “To bed with you.”

As he expected, Miranda rolled her eyes, somehow managing a full-body shrug, then shuffled towards the stairs as if she’d been shackled at the ankles. “Not 24601,” she groused as she climbed. “Jean Valjean.”

“That’s as may be, but Monsieur still needs his sleep. Go on.” He pointed, and with a sigh of someone thirty years older, she went. “And brush your teeth!” he called after her.

“I’m a free man!” she shouted back. Even so, he heard the tap run a moment later.

Satisfied Miranda hadn’t descended into some sort of musical madness and was truly getting herself ready for bed, Douglas wandered back into the dining room to finish the last of the tidying up. Snagging stray bits of ribbons and wrapping paper from under the table, he threw the scraps into one of the bin bags overflowing with birthday rubbish. He swept up the pile of neglected cards and for a moment fought the temptation to toss the lot of them. Sentiment won out in the end, and he laid the stack on the mantle instead.

Then the corner of a crisp white envelope caught his attention. A lone, unopened straggler. There was always one, wasn’t there? With a sigh, he pulled it from the pile, sparing the front a cursory glance--just Miranda’s name scrawled across the front in an unfamiliar hand. He thumbed open the seal.

The card was one of those blank sorts, cheap stock and evidently a complete afterthought, devoid of any personalization.

 _Dearest Miranda,_ it read. _Happy 10th! Let’s hope you live to see many more!_

_P.S. Send my love to your dad, will you? I owe him more than he could ever know._

And there, at the bottom in impeccable script, just two little words, but they were enough to stop his heart.

_Love,  
Peter_

**Author's Note:**

> Previously known as "This Pilot is Too Stickler-y, This One is Too Smug, This One is Juuuust Right (or Else He's Evil)" Currently named because of c3mf's obsession with the Arctic Monkeys.


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